


Incident at the barriere du Maine

by Signe_chan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Grantaire character study, expended book scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signe_chan/pseuds/Signe_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras said gravely, “I consent to trying you out. You will go to the barriere du Maine.” </p><p>At those words, Grantaire felt a strange and unexpected hope flood his chest. I consent to trying you out. I seemed like so little but contained in those few words was the chance for a future better than any Grantaire might have dared to dream for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incident at the barriere du Maine

**Author's Note:**

> This explores the events of the brick - Part 4 book 1 - VI. Enjolras and his lieutenants - from Grantaire's point of view.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said gravely, “I consent to trying you out. You will go to the barriere du Maine.” 

At those words, Grantaire felt a strange and unexpected hope flood his chest. I consent to trying you out. I seemed like so little but contained in those few words was the chance for a future better than any Grantaire might have dared to dream for. 

Without waiting for another word, before Enjolras might have the chance to change his mind, Grantaire left the cafe. He made his way to his own room, a small thing only a street away. Dark and damp but convenient. There, under the bed, was a box. one he didn’t open when he could avoid it, as though not looking at these articles of his past might eliminate them from the record in some way. 

He took the box out now. He ran his fingers over the dusty surface then let them find the lock. It was a simple affair and in no time the box was open and he was lifting out the contents. 

Books of philosophy, of study. The endless quest for meaning which had consumed his earlier years before the drink had chased it away. Papers and mementos and, yes, there, the red waistcoat in the style of Robespierre. He’d bought it when new to Paris, before he’d found this way of thinking to be as hollow as all the others his heart had flown after over the years. 

He put it on again now. But now, the red was something different. Now, the red was Enjolras. Now, perhaps, in his adoration of Enjolras, Grantaire might find a fraction of the strength required to be the person he was being trusted to be. 

He could stir revolution. He could speak eloquently of rights and wars and the importance of action. He might not believe it but he did believe in Enjolras, believed in him as though Enjolras was the only colour in a bleak world. Maybe, for once, that would be enough. 

He went back to the cafe Musain long enough to show off his waistcoat, to look Enjolras in the eye and tell him not to worry, and then he left. 

As predicted, his shoes had no qualms in carrying him down the rue des Gres. In fact, he crossed the place Saint-Michel and cut through the rue Monsieur-le-Prince before they began to falter. As he walked along the rue Vaugirard, past the Carmes, his steps became slower, heavier, weighed down with the weight of the commission he had taken on. As he strode down the rue des Vieilles-Tuileries he tried to recall to himself the words that Enjolras spoke at the meetings. Those rousing words that even stirred hope in a poor, dead soul like the one which Grantaire was in possession of. 

He stopped at the boulevard. He had sworn to bound down it but now there was no spring in his step. Instead he came to rest against the wall in the shade of the doorway and shoved his shaking hands behind his back. Then he took them out again and retrieved the flask from his pocket, drinking deeply. A little artificial courage. 

To succeed would be to show Enjolras that there was more to old Grantaire than he had imagined. It would be to return in triumph, to be looked upon favourably by that man who expressed in human form every desire Grantaire had ever aspired to. He might win a rare smile, a pat on the back. He might be trusted a little more, ignored a little less. 

To fail would be to condemn himself. There would be no other chance, not with a man like Enjolras. Enjolras was absolute and was fixed in this. He saw only North, no other way. To fail at this would be to fail at everything. 

Grantaire could not fail. 

The flask held depressingly little but Grantaire felt better for having drunk it. He felt his throat loosen, his feet lighten. He could do this. He would do this. He would be looked upon favourably by Enjolras. He would earn that smile. That sliver of pride. 

He made it down the boulevard. Followed the chaussee du Maine while determinedly ignoring the trembling in his limbs and stepped into Richefeu’s. 

The men were there. Marble cutters, painters, sculptors assistants, as Enjolras had said. They formed a gruff crowd, absorbed in food and drink and dominoes, and Grantaire felt his blood chill to see them. 

How was he, a non-believer, to stand and preach to this choir? What might have have to say that might sway them? At best, he might parrot the words of Enjolras. Hope that something in that might inspire them, but he felt that his delivery might be poor. That his words would be shaky and easily overlooked. 

“Ah, a new face,” one of the men said, drawing Grantaire’s attention. He was young and he looked healthy and strong. A good man to have at a barricade, maybe he might start here.”

“Hello,” Grantaire. “I come as an emissary.” 

“Then sit with us,” the man said, gesturing at an empty chair and Grantaire took it willingly. This man seemed genial, he was probably well liked. Maybe if Grantaire talked round this one man he might talk around others. 

“Your name, emissary?” 

“Grantaire.” 

“And I’m Martinel. Come, drink with us why don’t you?” 

Grantaire was more than willing to take the offered drink. He swallowed it down, let it wash the deposits of doubt from his throat. 

“Tell me, Monsieur, do you know how to play dominoes?” 

“Of course,” Grantaire replied. “It’s something of a hobby of mine.” 

“Big talk, I don’t suppose you’d care to put your money behind that boast?” 

“I shouldn’t. I’m here to talk to you, not to play.” 

“We can talk and play at once,” Martinel said, easily. “I’ll call over some other men, you can have a real audience for what you’ve come to tell us.” 

“Well...I suppose…” Grantaire said. He knew that he should say no. That he should walk away and create himself a stage. That he should raised his voice and talk on the liberty of man as he had promised. In the cafe Musain he would not hesitate to stand and hold forth about whatever he thought they needed to hear. 

But in the cafe Musain his words were water, dripping unheeded to the floor. Without substance, without form. These words which he needed to speak here would be weightier. Stronger. 

And the bottle was still open beside him. He might play a game, have a drink, win a little money and a little courage and then he would stand and deliver his speech. 

A few other men came, the game began. 

Soon, Grantaire was lost of the familiar flow of play. He tried, a few times, to broach the contract social or the constitution but his new friends seemed to have no ears for such things, talking over him loudly of the game. And as the bottle beside him emptied along with his pockets Grantaire found it harder and harder to keep track, to remember the words that he should be saying and why. 

Then, quite suddenly to him, his new friends were rising. They slipped Grantaire's lost coin into their pockets and smiled at each other. 

“Thank you, Monsieur Emissary, be sure to come again.” 

“And bring along more of your friendly coins.” 

“But wait,” Grantaire said, panic climbing in him. “None of you listened to what I had to say.” 

The men laughed, turned their backs on him and headed for the door and as Grantaire looked around he realised that the place was emptying. Without his notice, two o’clock had slipped up to them and the men were returning to their work.

“Wait,” Grantaire cried, but none of them listened. He delivered his speech, slurred now by the drink, to the rapidly emptying room. A few laughed at him as they passed and he felt a prickling in his soul when he thought of the awful wretch they must see when they looked at him. Downtrodden and drunk and lost. So very lost. 

After the last of the workers had gone he stumbled from Richefeu’s. His pockets were empty but his soul longed for another bottle. 

He had failed. 

If he went back now then he might see Enjolras. He might have to admit that he had failed, that he had talked nobody to their cause. That he’d been caught up in his own thirst and idiocy and wasted his time and money and that someone else should have to go and undo the damage that Grantaire had done. 

Melancholy settled on him like a mantle and he fell to his knees in the gutter, a just and right place for a mess of humanity such as himself. He pulled the red waistcoat from his body and balled it up, throwing it down under his feet. 

All he had wished was, for once, to be looked on with admiration. He could not even achieve that. Not once. 

In the end, the only thing that pulled him from the place he had fallen was the thought of another bottle. He had one, hidden away in his room. He might get there without being seen, drink it alone. At the bottom, if he was lucky, he might find oblivion. 

It was the best that could be hoped for a wretch like him.


End file.
